Nightmares
by Blue Sailor
Summary: Series of one-shots. Both boys are having nightmares, and not hiding it as well as they think. Hurt/comfort, fluff, and cuddles.
1. The Knight

Nightmares

Dean doesn't know where the First Blade is, but he can hear it.

He can mostly ignore it during the day, when he can drown it out with the noise of working on the Impala, cooking, or doing research with Sam. But at night, when the bunker is quiet, just before he falls asleep, the silence itself seems to take on that high, mind-numbing note. And to this poisonous lullaby, he sinks into dreams of blood and teeth and murder.

This particular night, he finds himself staring into his own face- a twisted, feral version of it, with black demon eyes. His alter ego speaks, but the voice issuing from his mouth sounds wrong, it isn't Dean's voice, it sounds much more like Cain's...and it tells him, _"Then would come the murder you'd never survive, the one that would finally turn you into as much of a savage as it did me."_ Dean tries to protest, but he can't make a sound, and he jerks awake gasping and making strangled noises in the back of his throat.

Dean lies there for a few moments, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, scanning the dark bedroom. He can just distinguish the dark blobs that are his guns decorating the walls, the blocky shapes of his dresser and bookcases, the books and papers scattered across the floor. All is silent, and the song of the First Blade is in his head again. Suddenly, Dean wishes he was back in a dingy motel room with scratchy sheets and lumpy pillows. As much as Dean likes having his own room-and as glad as he is that it means he can keep his nightmares private-he misses having Sam's reassuring presence a few feet away, misses the sound of his even breathing filling the room.

Now, though, Sam is down the hall and Dean will have to get up and go over there if he wants that reassurance. He sighs and heaves himself upright, bare feet padding soundlessly on the floor. He listens briefly outside the door to Sam's bedroom. At first, he hears nothing. Then, a faint whimper filters out into the hallway. Dean clenches his teeth and eases the door open.

Sam's moving restlessly under the covers, clearly having a nightmare of his own. Dean steps forward, thinking he should go to him, wake him up, try to comfort him like he always used to when they were younger. But then Sam speaks in his sleep, and his words stop Dean cold.

"Dean, stop! Listen! I know you're still in there, somewhere. I don't want to use this blade on you!"

Dean feels sick. It's not just any nightmare Sam's having-he's dreaming about the day Dean almost killed him. Would have, if Cas hadn't stepped in. Now everything in him is screaming that he needs to go over there and wake Sam out of that dreadful nightmare, shatter the terrible images he must be seeing. But will Sam want to see him, having just awoken from such a dream? Would he want comfort from Dean, having just relived the moment when Dean tried to kill him?

Dean hesitates too long. Sam stirs, waking, and sits up when he makes out Dean's outline in the open doorway.

"Dean? What're you doing?"

Dean swallows, willing his voice to be steady when he speaks. "Couldn't sleep." It comes out a little hoarse. "Thought I'd check on you."

There's a pause, and Dean expects Sam to whine at him that he's not a little kid, hasn't been for a long time, and he doesn't need to be checked on in the middle of the night. So he's totally unprepared when Sam says sympathetically, "Another nightmare?"

Dean stills, his stomach plummeting. "What? No," he denies flatly, knowing as he says it that it's already too late. Even in the dark, he can tell Sam's giving him The Bitchface.

"Yeah, okay," he says, in that irritating way of his.

Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking down at the floor. "How did you know?" he asks in a low voice.

"Come on, Dean," Sam says, exasperated. "Did you think you were the only one who can't sleep sometimes?"

"Guess I'm not."

"Guess not." Sam's voice sounds hollow.

_I'm not a demon anymore,_ Dean wants to say. _You cured me, Sammy._ Except that he's not so sure of that himself, these days.

"Hey Dean?" Sam sounds uncomfortable. Dean rouses himself from his thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Um… you wanna give the separate rooms a pass for tonight?"

Dean surprises himself by feeling nothing but profound relief at the suggestion, as though he had been waiting anxiously for it all along. He shuts the door behind him, shuffles over to the bed, and climbs in next to Sam. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he sidles over until he can feel his brother's warm body pressed against his side. Sam lets out a breath, as though he's relieved, too, and presses back.

The silence seems different in Sam's room. Calmer, quieter somehow. It's only right as he's about to fall asleep that Dean realizes he can't hear the First Blade's song anymore. _Huh,_ he thinks. _Maybe Sam's cure worked after all._

Then he slips gratefully into a dreamless sleep.


	2. The Mark

NOTE: So, I totally wasn't planning on writing a second part to this story, but then Inside Man aired, and I still haven't stopped screaming over how similar the first scene was to what I had written. And of course, after seeing that, I couldn't _not_ write this. Many thanks to the lovely RiverSongTam for her help on this chapter!

*S*P*N*

The sound of his name drags Sam out of a deep sleep and back to partial consciousness. He squints blearily at the door, expecting to see Dean hovering there, ready with some excuse about not being able to sleep and wanting to check on him. But then he hears his name again—a shout, long and anguished, echoing down the hallway—and jolts fully awake.

It wouldn't be the first time Dean has started screaming in his sleep, but Sam's heart is pounding as he swings his feet onto the floor. He knows the bunker is secure, that it's probably just a nightmare, but all the same, Dean sounds like he's really in trouble. Another shout rings through the bunker, and Sam grabs his gun from his bedside table, flicking off the safety and holding it in front of him as he starts down the hallway, scanning for any potential danger.

Dean's voice grows louder as Sam approaches his bedroom. Without pausing to listen, Sam flings the door open, gun at the ready. Light from the hallway filters over the bed, glistening on sweaty skin—Dean, thrashing under his blanket, moaning and clenching his teeth. Definitely a nightmare. Sam checks the rest of the room anyway before lowering his gun and looking back at Dean.

Until recently, Sam would have stood, quiet and uncertain, by Dean's bed, watching over him until the nightmare ended, and then going back to his own room without waking him. Dean had never mentioned the nightmares by the light of day, and Sam, following his lead, hadn't mentioned them either— Dean's _or_ his own. But, of course, neither of them could ever keep anything hidden from the other for long, and trying hadn't done much good anyway. Watching his brother in the throes of yet another nightmare, Sam decides that as of tonight, he's done following Dean's lead.

Dean has stopped making noise, but he's still moving fitfully. With a vague feeling of relief, Sam reaches out and gives his shoulder a firm shake.

"Dean. _Dean._ Wake up."

It takes several seconds' more shaking, but Dean's eyes finally blink open and he sits up with a gasp, his hand sliding under his pillow to clench around whatever weapon he has stashed there.

"Hey," Sam whispers to him, "you with me? It was just a nightmare."

Dean looks at him, but doesn't say anything. He withdraws his hand from beneath the pillow and brings it up instead to rub at his ears, as though trying to block out an annoying sound.

"Dean. You hear me?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, sounding almost surprised. He rubs at his ears again. Sam listens for a moment, but doesn't hear anything.

"You good?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean says again. He gives his head a little shake. "Bad dream."

"I gathered," Sam says drily. He knows he shouldn't push it, but Dean's screams of his name are still echoing in his head, and he can't help asking, "You want to tell me what it was about?"

Dean's quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Doesn't matter. It's never going to happen."

Sam knows from his tone that's all he's going to say on the subject. He sighs, gets to his feet, crosses the room, and shuts the door, throwing them into nearly complete darkness. He feels his way back over to the bed and sets his gun on the nightstand, making sure the safety is back on.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks as he climbs into the bed.

"What do you think?"

"You don't have to stay."

"Yes, I do. It's the only way either of us is getting any more sleep tonight, and you know it."

Dean huffs at that, but apparently can't think of an argument against it, because he offers no further protest as Sam pulls the covers over himself.

"At least don't steal all the blankets," he grumbles, yanking them back over to his side.

"Hey! _You're_ the one stealing the blankets," Sam objects, yanking back.

"They're _my_ blankets."

Sam rolls his eyes and tugs enough blanket away from Dean to cover his feet. "Shut up and go to sleep."

"What's the point of even having my own room?" Dean mutters, but there's no real venom behind it. Sam grins, presses up against him, and grins even wider when Dean presses right back.

The only other disturbance that night is a renewed tug-of-war over the blanket.


	3. The Cage

Sam thinks, at first, that this is one of his visions, but he quickly realizes that something is wrong.

He's cold. He's so cold his bones ache with it, his skin stinging, muscles cramping, locking, freezing in place. He's colder than he can ever remember being, not even during that one miserable winter in Michigan, as cold as—

The Cage. He's back in the Cage, _in_ the Cage, not just observing from the outside, _he is inside the Cage—_

Brightness flares, unbearably bright silver-blue, and Sam tries to shut his eyes but even his eyelids seem frozen—

_You can't look away, Sam,_ says Lucifer's voice. _You can't escape. You will always end up here._

Sam comes awake with a shuddering gasp, limbs flailing, no longer frozen. He's still shivering, though, despite the sweat dripping from him, as if the chill of Lucifer's hatred has followed him out of the Cage—out of the nightmare. He gropes clumsily at the foot of his bed, snagging the edge of the comforter and pulling it tightly around himself, but it's no good. His body heat just doesn't seem to be enough to warm him.

Abandoning the comforter, Sam levers himself off the bed and stumbles towards the door, yanking it open with trembling fingers. This is a mistake; the bright fluorescent light of the hallway hits him like a physical blow, and he flinches back, his heart pounding, before his brain registers its yellow, artificial cast, quite unlike the icy silver-blue of his dream. And then, once he's gathered himself enough to step over the threshold, he flinches again at the touch of cold tile on his bare feet. He runs on tiptoe to Dean's room, his eyes squinched half-shut against the light, and bursts in without knocking.

Dean is sprawled across the bed on his stomach, but at the sound of the door opening he rolls over to face Sam, blinking dazedly.

"Sam?" he mutters. "Wha's goin' on?"

"I just, uh—" says Sam. It's hard to speak; his teeth are chattering. "I'm cold."

Dean is looking much more alert now, scrutinizing Sam's hunched posture, and Sam knows he must look pretty pathetic, with his arms wrapped around himself and his toes curling against the cold floor. He drops his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. It was just a nightmare, and not even an unfamiliar one. Running to his big brother's room for comfort is certainly not helping the pathetic image.

He's preparing to turn around and face the awful brightness of the hallway again when there's a rustle of movement from the bed, and he glances up despite himself. Dean is still staring at him, his expression unreadable, but he's holding one side of his blanket up meaningfully.

"C'mere," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Sam is across the room in an instant, sliding under the covers and curling up against his brother's side. Dean slips an arm around his shoulders, leaning them both back against the pillows, and it's so soothing and safe and—above all—_warm,_ that Sam has to clench his teeth around a moan of relief.

Dean waits until Sam's shivers have subsided before speaking again.

"The Cage?" he asks quietly.

Sam swallows, a faint chill running through him again, even here, tucked up all snug and secure next to Dean. "That I was back inside," he confirms after a moment.

Dean's arm tightens around him, his hand clenching in Sam's t-shirt. "You know that's not gonna happen, though, right?" he asks, though his tone is more pleading than reassuring. "It's just not. No way."

Sam nods, because he can tell Dean wants him to. But he knows, now, has known for a long time, that not even his big brother can protect him from everything.

Still, he thinks, settling even more firmly against Dean's side, it's nice to know that whatever terrors haunt his dreams, he'll always end up _here._


	4. The Search

Dean doesn't realize he's asleep until he's waking with a jolt, wrenching himself upright with such force he nearly sends his chair toppling backwards. He regains his balance by clutching at the edge of the book-strewn table he was slumped over, and then rubs a hand over his face, cursing quietly to himself, feeling deep creases where his cheek must have been pressed against the spiral binding of his notebook. He isn't sure how long he's been out. Long enough for his laptop to go dark, at least. Long enough to sink into vague dreams involving a lot of blood, and chains, and screaming.

He supposes it was inevitable; he hasn't slept in nearly two days, not since Amara zapped him back to the park and he found a garbled voicemail from Sam on his cellphone, from which he gleaned nothing except that Sam was about to do something incredibly stupid like _go into hell without him_. Dean drove back to Lebanon without once taking his foot off the gas, his phone pressed to his ear the whole way, continually redialing Sam's number. His fears were as good as confirmed when he got back to the bunker to find no Book, no witch, and no little brother; rather more than confirmed when Crowley called a few hours later to tell him (after a lot of dithering and dancing around the issue) that Rowena had betrayed them, and Sam had been sucked into the Cage.

Dean curses again, more emphatically this time. He didn't mean to fall asleep. Sleep will only cost him time, while he searches for a way to get Sam back, and Dean knows with painful, first-hand certainty that every hour, every minute of delay could be costing Sam eternities of torture. Plus, sleep lets the nightmares creep up on him. This thought makes the back of his neck prickle, and he glances uneasily around the library, into the shadows gathered in the corners and between the bookshelves. He doesn't remember much of the dream he just woke up from, but he can still almost hear the screaming voices, and he has a horrible sense that some of them (the ones that sounded most like Sam) were calling his name.

He stands up abruptly, grabbing his empty thermos from the table and heading out of the library and into the bright light of the kitchen. He glances longingly at the whiskey cabinet, wishing he could grab a bottle and drink himself into a stupor too deep for dreams—but Sam needs him, and he needs to be clear-headed, so the only drinks he's allowed to have are ones with caffeine in them. Turning his back on the whiskey cabinet, Dean starts a new pot of coffee, leans on the counter, fidgeting, while it percolates, and then fills up his thermos and heads back out of the kitchen.

He doesn't realize where his feet are leading him until he's outside the door to Sam's room. Force of habit, he supposes, because it's not as if he's forgotten that Sam isn't there; the knowledge of it is a constant rasping whine at the back of his head, like static over the radio in the absence of a signal. But he's become accustomed, over the last few months, to coming here after a nightmare, and this one has unsettled him more than he wants to admit.

There's a faint glow coming from under the door, which means Cas is in there. Dean knocks softly and enters. Cas is huddled on the bed, several books spread out around him, the comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He looks terrible, almost as tired and strained as he did while his grace was fading, and it causes Dean an odd pang to see him bury his nose in the edge of the comforter, inhaling deeply.

"Hey, Cas," says Dean, feeling somewhat awkward as he approaches. "Find anything yet?"

Cas looks up, frowning slightly. "Dean. You should be resting."

Dean takes this to mean that he hasn't found anything. "I just caught a few z's in the library," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I'm good for now."

"You know, ever since I got my grace back I've missed being able to sleep," says Cas. He fixes Dean with an unblinking stare, and continues, "But now I'm glad that I can't. If I could, I think I would be having nightmares."

Dean shifts uncomfortably, and instead of responding, he reaches to pull one of Cas's books toward him. Before he can grab it, though, a hand lands on his wrist.

"Dean," says Cas, and Dean doesn't have to be looking at him to know that his eyes are all wide with that earnest expression he must have picked up from Sam. "Seriously, you need to rest."

"I'll rest when we've got Sam back," he says, dislodging his arm from Cas's grip and resolutely picking up the book.

He doesn't object, though, when Cas unwraps the comforter from around himself and piles it into Dean's lap; and when his eyes slip closed again a short while later, the scent of Sam on the fabric is enough to keep the nightmares at bay.


	5. The Aftermath

The ancient alarm clock on Dean's bedside table is ticking away softly, as if to mock him for every second he spends awake, unable to get comfortable on his memory foam mattress. Usually the noise doesn't bother him—he even finds it soothing, a nice stand-in for the sound of Sam's breathing—but tonight it's just distracting. Probably because he's listening so hard for a soft footfall in the hallway outside, the slight swish of his bedroom door opening.

This is the first night since _The Cage 2.0_ that he hasn't woken to Sam crawling into bed with him, sweaty and trembling, still half in the grip of a nightmare. It's become enough of a routine that Dean hardly rouses anymore, just rolls onto his back and raises his arm so Sam can curl up close and tuck his head against Dean's chest like he's still a little kid and Dean's still the big brother who can protect him from anything. It's not true, of course—never was, even when they both still believed it—but nevertheless, Dean finds it comforting to be able to wrap Sam up tight and pretend.

Which is why, glad as he is that Sam finally seems to be getting a night of solid, undisturbed sleep, Dean can't help listening for his approach with a certain sort of hopefulness.

He flips over restlessly, pushing his head into the pillow in an attempt to block out the clock's ticking. He wishes Cas had come back to the bunker with them, instead of going off to do whatever mysterious angel thing he'd felt was necessary. Then, at least, there would be someone to watch over Sam, someone to alert Dean if his brother needed him and was too stubborn or ashamed or afraid to come to his room. But they haven't heard from Cas since leaving him behind with Crowley and Rowena, and Dean would be worried about him too if he had any worry to spare.

It's just, Dean can't help waiting for everything to fall apart, like it did the last time he got Sam back from the Cage. And sure, this time it wasn't the real Cage, and Lucifer's power was limited, but it makes Dean's chest ache to think of Sam having to endure even a fraction of that horror again. It makes him itch with the kind of murderous rage he hasn't felt since the Mark. It makes him want to put his arms around his little brother and damn well _pretend._

And since Cas _isn't _there, Dean feels he has a pretty good excuse for getting up to check on Sam himself.

He keeps listening as he makes his way down the hallway, alert for any sound from Sam's room, but hears nothing besides the padding of his own footsteps. When he reaches the door, he hesitates for a moment, still listening. The silence is beginning to unnerve him. Holding his breath, he eases Sam's door open just enough to let him slip inside.

Sam is stretched out on his bed; from what Dean can see of him in the dim light, he's sleeping peacefully, his face soft and uncreased, half-obscured by a hank of floppy hair. The sight causes Dean's airway to constrict painfully, as if an invisible monster has its claws around his throat. He drifts closer, unable to tear his eyes away, and, without thinking, sits down on the edge of bed.

He jumps up again almost immediately, realizing his mistake, but the damage is done; Sam's eyes snap open, and blink a few times before focusing on him.

"Dean?" he murmurs, propping himself up on his elbows to peer at him. "What the hell, dude?"

"Sorry," says Dean, already backing towards the door. "I wasn't—I didn't mean to—" He licks his lips, feeling like a complete idiot. "I was just—"

"—checking on me?" Sam yawns. "I know. It's okay."

Dean pauses. "Are _you?"_ he asks.

Sam's lips curl slightly. Dean can't decide if it's a smile or a grimace.

"I just slept for five hours without a nightmare," Sam says. "That's improvement, right?"

"Improvement," Dean echoes, nodding stiffly. "Yeah. 'S good, Sammy. I'm glad…." He trails off, trying to mean it, trying to wrestle down the odd sense of loss rising within him.

Sam startles him out of his internal struggle by pushing his comforter down in a sudden, decisive movement. "Get in," he says.

Dean's first impulse is to refuse. After all, they only sleep together after a nightmare, and neither of them has had a nightmare. Plus, he thinks it might set a bad precedent to give in to Sam's bossy tone in a situation like this. He therefore fully intends to brush Sam off with a _Nah, man, I'm going back to my memory foam;_ but what actually comes out of his mouth is, "Move over, then."

Next thing he knows, Sam is shuffling over to make room, and Dean is stepping back over to the bed, sliding down between the sheets, and Sam is hooking an arm around him and pulling him close, and Dean lets him even though he knows he should be the one comforting Sam, not the other way around.

Sam rubs steady circles on his back, making soft shushing noises, and Dean realizes he's shaking, his breath coming in shallow, shuddering gasps.

"Sorry," he says again, choking it into the crook of Sam's neck, though he's not sure what he's apologizing for.

Sam just keeps rubbing his back, his other arm tightening around Dean's waist. "It's okay, Dean," he answers. "It's okay."

* * *

**A/N:** I have to say, I definitely did not anticipate adding this many chapters to this fic. But the show has provided some great inspiration, and it's been a fun project, so I'd like to try to keep it going. I'm open to suggestions for future installments! And I hope you enjoyed this one. :)


	6. The Witness

**A/N:** These just keep getting angstier, you guys, sorry.

* * *

It's a full thirty-six hours after finding himself facing Lucifer instead of Cas across the map room table before Sam even thinks about sleep. He and Dean killed several of those hours driving to the pier, neither of them particularly wanting to stay in the bunker at the moment; and then they took a detour into town on the way back so that Dean could buy more coffee. Dean raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything, when Sam added a second bag to their usual bulk-size purchase, and as soon as they got back Sam busied himself with making a dent in it, spending several more hours in a caffeine-fueled frenzy of research.

He tells himself that it's important to get as much work done as he can, as quickly as he can, because now he's looking for a way to save Cas, as well as a way to defeat Amara. Really, though, he just doesn't want to face the nightmares lurking behind his eyelids.

Because Sam's body still aches with the blunt, burning pain of Lucifer forcing a hand between his ribs, pushing aside his organs, reaching down into his most secret, tender places to touch his soul, and it feels like failure. Sam should have seen it, he should have known—after two hundred years in the Cage with the bastard, you'd think Sam would be able to recognize him—but he didn't. He failed, and he offered himself willingly to Lucifer. He _asked_ for it.

Dean finds him crouched in a dusty corner of the archive, flipping dazedly through a box of files. The one he wants is here, he _knows_ it, though he can't quite remember exactly what it is he's looking for, and his hands are shaking so badly he probably wouldn't be able to dig it out anyway.

"What the hell are you doing still up?" Dean asks him, sounding appalled. "I thought you went to bed hours ago."

Sam blinks up at him, rubbing his forehead. There's a headache forming deep inside his skull, whether from eye strain or the caffeine he isn't sure. He has no idea what time it is; judging by the frown Dean is giving him, it must be pretty late. "I've been working," he mumbles.

"Yeah, well, right now you should be sleeping," says Dean firmly. "Come on."

He offers a hand to help Sam up, and Sam has to force himself not to back away, even though he knows it's only Dean, it's _definitely_ Dean because the first thing they did upon returning to the bunker (after starting a fresh pot of coffee) was to ward the entire place against angels so that Lucifer wouldn't be able to get back in. Still, the image of a hand extending towards him isn't a particularly good one for Sam right now. He stands up obediently, though, because Dean looks ready to drag him bodily from the archive if he doesn't.

Dean follows him all the way back to his room, and hovers in the doorway until Sam sits down on the bed. "You gonna be okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," says Sam. And he will be, as long as he doesn't fall asleep.

Dean nods and shuts the door. Sam knows he should get up off the bed, and go to his desk, but the mattress is much more comfortable than the desk chair would be, and he can't seem to summon the energy. He supposes it won't do any harm to just sit here for a few minutes. His head is still hurting, and even the soft light of his desk lamp is aggravating. Without thinking, he lets his eyes slip closed….

The next thing he knows, he's back in the map room, and Cas is standing next to him, wearing that slightly-softer-than-normal expression that passes for a smile. Sam smiles back eagerly, reaching out, but finds he can't touch him—this is a dream, and Cas is as insubstantial as a mirage in the desert. That's okay, though, because if Cas is here, in Sam's dream, that must mean it isn't a nightmare.

No sooner has this thought crossed his mind than Cas's face changes, a familiar smirk twisting his features.

_Gotcha,_ Lucifer giggles, and suddenly he's not insubstantial at all—he's pushing Sam back against the wall, pinning him there, grabbing at him with hands that burn with searing grace, and Sam is paralyzed, can't do anything but witness it happening and scream—

"Sam. _Sammy."_

There are still hands on him, shaking his shoulder, but Sam finds he can move again, and he lashes out before his eyes are even open, desperate to fight back, to get away, to _do _something. His fists connect with soft flesh, and he hears a curse.

"_Ow,_ dammit. Stop it, Sam, _stop,_ it's me! It's okay, it was just a nightmare."

Sam finally registers the face staring down at him—not Lucifer, or even Cas. Just Dean. He's paler than normal, and there are tired shadows under his eyes, but his gaze is sharp and alert as he watches Sam, his expression tight with worry, and yeah, it's definitelyDean.

Sam lets out a shaky sigh, relaxing slightly. Dean relaxes, too, and moves towards him again, obviously intending to get into bed with him, the way they've been doing recently when one of them needs comfort.

It's by no means a threatening gesture, but Sam can't prevent himself from flinching back. "Don't touch me," he gasps out, because right now the thought of anyone's hands on him, even Dean's, makes him want to claw right out of his skin.

Dean freezes, and Sam sees a flash of hurt in his eyes, but before he can say anything to apologize Dean murmurs a quiet, "Okay." He lowers himself down onto the floor, leaning his back against the side of the bed. "I'll be right here if you need me. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam whispers back. He's aching again, somewhere deep inside, but it's a sweet ache that has nothing to do with Lucifer. "Thanks."

"Go to sleep," says Dean.

Sam does. This time, he doesn't dream.

*S*P*N*

Dean doesn't sleep. He's so exhausted, he thinks he probably could drift off even in his uncomfortable position, but he said he would be there if Sam needed him, and that means both in body and mind, so he has to stay awake. He doesn't move from his spot, either, not even when his legs go numb and the bed frame starts digging into his back. He wants Sam to know where he is if he wakes up.

It's difficult, though. Dean feels heavy, sagging, like a sack full of useless old junk, and it would be a blessing to be able to slip into unconsciousness so he wouldn't have to feel the sting of Sam telling him to stay away. He might not have been able to save Delphine and the crew of the _Bluefin,_ and he might not be able to kill Amara, but it never occurred to Dean that he would ever be unable to comfort his brother.

Dean doesn't know what Lucifer did to make Sam scream like that, but he knows the Cage is too good a place for him. Not that Dean can do much about Lucifer, either.

So Dean does the only thing he can do, and keeps his vigil at Sam's bedside until he hears movement above him, the bedclothes rustling as Sam sits up. Dean turns to look at him, wincing because his neck has gone stiff during the night. He looks calm, so he didn't wake up from a nightmare, but his face is still haggard and grim and far too tired-looking, and Dean just wants to make him feel better, dammit.

"You okay?" he asks.

Sam gives a half-hearted shrug in reply, which Dean takes to mean _No._

"Tell me how to help," he says, desperately, because he doesn't think he can sit here any longer, witnessing Sam's suffering and not doing anything about it.

But Sam just blinks at him, as though he doesn't understand the request. "You _are_ helping," he says.


	7. The Stranger

**A/N:** Inspired by the season 12 promo.

* * *

The first night Mary spends in the bunker, she wakes to the unmistakable sounds of someone whimpering and moaning, as though in pain. The noise is muffled by the thick walls, and so faint Mary is surprised she can hear it at all, but it seems a mother always knows, even if she's been dead long enough she doesn't feel like much of a mother anymore.

She rolls over, listening, and is momentarily distracted by the drag of strange clothing over her skin. Then she remembers she's wearing a borrowed pair of Dean's sweats and an old flannel, scrounged from the bottom of a dresser drawer to replace the nightgown she arrived in. They're soft with age, perfect for sleeping, but everything feels new and uncomfortable to her, and when she first put them on it was a little disconcerting that she had to roll the cuffs up three times in the arm and leg. Her child isn't much of a child anymore, either.

Still, there's something familiar in the cries filtering into her bedroom, something that has her sliding out of bed before she's awake enough to think better of it. Something that cuts through all the strangeness and guides her steps across the cold floor and out into the hallway, like a string tethered to the mouth of a maze.

She hesitates just outside Dean's room, though, her fingers just brushing the doorknob. This place, this bunker, wasn't built to be forgiving; it's all severe concrete architecture and harsh fluorescent lighting and doors that look like they're meant to stay shut. She gets the sense that few people are allowed past these defenses, and she's not entirely sure she's one of them. She certainly hasn't done much to earn that kind of confidence.

"He's dreaming," says a deep voice behind her, and she spins around, startled. It's the angel, Castiel, having appeared from the other end of the hallway, some room she hasn't seen yet. His head is cocked as if listening, though Dean has gone quiet by now. "It's not a very good dream."

"I know," Mary says, trying to match the angel's icy blue stare. "I was going to…." But she trails off, realizing she's not sure what, exactly, she was going to do.

Castiel just looks at her, inscrutable. "You should go back to your rest," he says, in that flat, gravelly voice. "I'll watch over him."

"No!" Mary says quickly. "I can do it."

Castiel gives no sign of agreement, but he doesn't stop her as she turns back to the door and opens it, letting light from the hallway spill into the room beyond.

Dean is curled on his bed, the covers torn half off the mattress and trailing haphazardly onto the floor, and he's moving fitfully in his sleep, just like John used to whenever he dreamed about the war. Mary wonders if John knew what he was doing when he brought their sons into this life, and she wants to be angry at him for it—but all she can manage is guilt, because of course he _didn't_ know.

She made sure of that.

Mary drifts closer to the bed, so carefully and quietly she might as well be a ghost, her weight hardly dipping the mattress when she sits down on it. Dean stirs in his sleep, turns his face into his pillow, away from her, and she folds her arms awkwardly over her stomach. If he were still four years old, the way she remembers him, she'd know exactly what to do, just stroke his hair and hug him and hum a few bars of "Hey Jude;" but Dean's a long way from a toddler now, and she hasn't had time to catch up.

"S'okay," Dean mumbles suddenly into the pillow. Mary jumps, half-rising from the bed, but he's still asleep, not talking to her. "S'okay, Sammy. I gotcha. I gotcha."

Mary can't help smiling a little at that, remembering the way a much smaller Dean leaned over his baby brother's crib and kissed his forehead. At least there's one thing that hasn't changed, one thing that has survived and flourished all these years; and she thinks maybe John knew what he was doing after all.

"Mom?"

Dean really is awake this time, blinking dazedly at her, and she finds herself reaching out to smooth her fingers through his sweaty hair.

"Shh," she tells him. "Go back to sleep."

He just blinks at her again, frowning slightly, like he doesn't quite understand. She feels the old mantra rising to her lips, opens her mouth to say _Angels are watching over you_—but then she thinks of Castiel out in the hallway, and she bites the words back, and says instead, "I'm here."

And judging by the way Dean immediately relaxes, his eyes slipping closed again, that was all he needed.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm not particularly happy with this, but I thought it would make a good "get back in the saddle" fic after the many struggles I've been having with my big bang (which is finally done and coming in November). Plus I'd been wanting to update this again! Thanks for reading :)


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